Maybe it was all of those eloquent and intricately designed tattoos on her slender body.
Maybe it was the way she wore her amber hair;
Barely styled, half of it pulled up, half of it flowing elegantly down to the small of her back; right above that fine ass of hers.
It could have been the way she spoke;
Vocabulary as if she were a Stanford graduate, yet there was that splash of vulgarity that was somehow so damn attractive.
Her style was her own, simple as that.
Sneakers, but she had those nice pair of brown boots hidden in her closet, too.
She just didn’t try too hard to impress, unlike the majority of these bimbos that prance around this tiresome town.
She didn’t wear sunglasses when it was dark.
She was true. She was her.
The level of admiration for her was out of this world.
I wouldn’t expect a single person to understand these thoughts.
But I just wanted to light one up right there.
Mosey outside and watch her slowly follow me, just to catch a buzz.
And so it begins.
I admire her.



Filed under Willow Hutton

2 responses to “Her

  1. i really love the originality of the style here. i also love that the lines are different lengths, giving it the rhythm of a poetic conversation. like a monologue in a play.

  2. it is so amazing how the right woman can unlock so much within.. treacherous and torturous

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